


Ripples

by orphan_account



Category: Real Person Fiction
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-15
Updated: 2012-07-15
Packaged: 2017-11-10 00:18:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/460145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>2006</p>
    </blockquote>





	Ripples

**Author's Note:**

> 2006

The screen door creaks and slams and Chris steps out into the heat to meet him as he climbs out of the cab. Shirt sticking to his back from the vinyl he was sure was gonna melt into his skin on the way from the airport. He’s used to heat but this was hell, humid hell with a side of fucking hot. 

“Hey.”

Following Chris back inside to pick careful steps over half spilled packing cases, foam and bubble stuff that cracks when you stand on it scattered over mesquite flooring. A couch still covered in plastic and a half empty bottle of Jack on the low table in front of the TV, lid off, two shot glasses filled to brimming, waiting in the still air.

No air, well not yet, the shade of Chris’ house not offering any respite from the heat and he’ll have to peel his jeans off and his feet feel about two sizes too big in his boots and he’s only been here a couple hours.

Suitcases left on the front porch for the trip later tonight, no plans other than the phone call to bring his fishing hat. He didn’t own a fishing hat. So they were gonna sit in a boat and drink beer and talk shit about nothing and maybe get a bite or probably not.

Not that he cared, it was a thing. Whenever Chris moved or was on location for anything longer than a couple weeks, he’d do this. Call him, throw the fishing poles and beer and a bottle in the bed of the truck and they’d drive. Go find some water, go get his bearings, mark the place out as home for however long he was gonna live there for.

Done it ever since they’d known each other well enough to do shit like that together. From the apartment downtown to the house not quite in the hills but near enough damn it, to here and all the places in between, hotel rooms and fucking huge trailers. Just get in the truck and drive.

Might take them all day and they’d park up in front of some roadhouse someplace, parched and pissed cause the turn they planned on taking was lost in a fog of smoke and maybe a couple beers too many. Or they’d find it pretty quick and spend the whole day catching nothing but sunburn and an aching back from being hunched over all day. 

“Think I found the place already.” called from the bathroom, the flush echoing off the tile as he downs his shot and yeah it’s gonna be one of those days.

Shirt and jeans dumped on the porch next to the cases and the fucked up boots he can’t seem to get fixed, never mind throw away and climbing into the cab of Chris’ truck, the beat up one, the one that was more rust than metal, with torn seats and a head lining that had some stain on it he didn’t want to think about. The fishing truck, shot suspension and a grinding stick shift, pretty sure it ain’t legal, but Chris loves it so that’s the one they take.

Even the air is different here, a little cleaner, there’s not that greasy line hanging on the horizon, smells different too, older, in a good way, in a home kinda way. The days since Vegas lost in meetings and cigar smoke and signing on the dotted line, sitting here now, his head bumping the roof for what must be the hundredth time and Chris must be driving straight at the fucking potholes. They got what they wanted, what they’d waited eight, nine years for the right time to do just that.

Letting his eyes drift closed, his head fall back against the seat that smells of worn leather and smoke and Chris. Jolting awake to a jab in the ribs “Here.” and a beer thrust into his hand and it’s still only 10. Grabbing the gear out the back, well the rods, a six pack or two or three and a cup of the sorriest looking worms he’s ever seen, packed in what looks like that shit Chris chews, everything else left to fry under a torn tarp.

And this will be the day. A boat that’s seen better days, sun that threatens to scorch a layer of skin from his body and Chris. Done it a thousand times before, probably do it a thousand times again. Letting Chris row out and they’ll drift and fish and drink beer, tell bullshit stories like they’re true and maybe write a little, sing something and make like after London it won’t be months before they can do this again.

Chris’ hat tipped low and grinning nah at him when he tells him to put sunscreen on, not caring any that the sun’s boring a hole through the top of his own head, the hat next to useless and he can feel the skin on his shoulders cooking right there. Toes curling in the thongs he rooted out of the box marked bedroom, knees splayed wide, the frays of cotton tickling his calves and he looks up, catches that look Chris gets and smiles. Cause he likes that look, that look means Chris knows he did the right thing.

The long lease on Chris’ place in LA sorted and sub let, the house here his for as long as he needs it, fuck, wants it and he knows he’ll be here rather than there and he likes that too. Bigger house, the furniture rattling around every room until Chris buys some more, not sure that he will bother. A couch and a TV for the game on Sunday and a fridge that can hold his weight in beer enough he thinks. The rest left to sort itself out, or stay in a crate or the store it yourself place on Fifth and Vine they took everything to before Chris got on the plane, til he moves back or out to someplace new.

And they can sit like this for hours, til the sun’s low, or they’re out of beer, or the fish they caught need to go on ice. Laying back, talking or not, Chris’ hands finding their way to the waistband of his shorts, tugging them open, resting the cold long neck against his skin and laying back, legs stretched out, feet resting between his thighs.

A toe catching the cotton clinging to his knee, raising goose bumps and a shiver in the heat he always expects, anticipates even, yet it never fails to catch his breath. Rod and reels forgotten for now, resting on the edge, lines hanging limp in water flat and still but for the tiniest ripple from some bug that's skating on the surface.

Ball of Chris’ foot riding up the inside of his thigh to press maybe a little too hard just behind his balls and he makes that noise and Chris smiles and rubs his thumb over the jut of his ankle. Too fucking hot to move, to do anything other than grind down a little, rub his foot against the inside of Chris’ arm, let his head fall back, try and get comfy with the plank of wood that’s his seat digging in his back.

Nearly tipping the boat over when Chris decides it’s a fine idea to stand and stretch out his back and falling to lay his weight between his outstretched legs with an oomf and a sonofabitch. Elbows digging onto the tender skin on the inside of his thighs just fucking so, just how Chris knows it’ll make him bite his lip and curse and push at him. Not that it makes a fucking blind bit of difference, cause Chris _knows_ what that does to him and he ain’t letting up anytime soon.

The “I’m trying to fish.” met with a barked laugh so loud the bird that was diving for something tasty on the lake bed squawks and flies off with a splash. “Yeah well, fuck you.” the rod thrown down and his fingers digging in turn into Chris’ shoulders to pull him up level. Close enough for Chris to bite a kiss into his lips, pull away with a suck and a growled “Later, I ain’t fucking in this boat.” 

And they’re not fucking in the boat, really they’re not. Making out, knuckles pressed hard against his belly as Chris’ hand moves on him, thumbnail running over the head of his cock, palm twisting with just spit to ease the way. 

Fingertips sliding through sweat to score nails over Chris’ back, collar bone bitten hard in reply, pushing to be shoved back, his own hands yanking at buttons and a stuck zipper and the boat’s rocking just a little too much. But it’s not fucking, it’s rutting and biting, scratching and pulling at clothes that stick to too hot skin. Fast and hard and coming too soon. Not that it mattered or that either gave a shit.

The rod lost over the side along with an oar and what Chris will tell later was the biggest fucking fish he’d ever seen. Not that anyone will believe him as the size of that fucker will get bigger with every beer, til it’s the size of a whale and nearly took his hand off.

The need to get back put off just a little longer. Heat, like smoke, drifting up off the water as he skims his fingers over the cool surface, pushing ripples that disappear before they reach the far bank. Sending turtles diving back underwater to chase the fish neither of them could get even a nibble from. 

Cars and airports and trips to London forgotten just for now, with the weight of Chris’ head on his hip, the _just falling_ breath soft and slow on his skin.


End file.
